AN: Here we are, I finally got another piece out to this one.

I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!

111

Carol followed Daryl into town. Out of instinct, perhaps, or an abundance of caution, Carol kept her head down as they walked through the muddy streets. She stayed right in Daryl's tracks and practically put her booted feet right where his had been only a step before. She kept an eye out, like he did, for the wagons and horses, but she didn't make eye contact with anyone—not for long, at least.

Carol followed Daryl into the mercantile. It was a building, like most of the places there, that was under construction. She stood with him while he easily sold the few pelts he'd brought. Money exchanged hands after he made a few purchases of needed items, and she smiled to herself when he requested a few peppermint sticks that she already knew were for her. He took what was owed him, and offered a mumbled promise that he'd return with more pelts before too long.

When they left, Daryl carried the bundle of their purchases under her his arm, and Carol followed him across the street to the place that offered rooms and whiskey—as advertised by a painted sign outside of the front of the building. As they stepped inside, Carol quickly figured out that the building was one of the few that was actually fully-built on the street—most of them, including the mercantile—had at least one wall that was made almost entirely out of tarp, and a roof that wasn't much better.

"Whiskey. Bottle. And two glasses."

"You want the whole bottle?" The bartender asked. "I got a half."

"Whole," Daryl said. "I'ma take what we don't finish."

The bartender handed over a whole bottle of whiskey, and he put two glasses on the bar.

"You old enough to drink, fella?" He asked, clearly trying to get a look at Carol. She managed to have a significant interest in her boots.

"He ain't none too social," Daryl offered, "but he's full haired over."

The bartender laughed.

"Look like you ain't too old yourself. Brothers?"

"Somethin' like that," Daryl said. "You got a paper?"

"You can read?" The man challenged jokingly. He laughed sincerely as he took a somewhat tattered paper from behind the bar. Daryl had nodded his head at him, but he didn't bother to say anything else about his ability to read. If he was offended by the man's question, he didn't voice it or show it on his features. "Here—this one's got some age on it. Come off a wagon that passed through just as we was driving the first stob in the ground. None of these assholes 'round here can read."

"Obliged," Daryl said, accepting the paper. Carol took the whiskey bottle and the glasses just to free up Daryl's hands. "You got another source of news around here?" He asked, deciding that the bartender was good-natured enough to engage in conversation.

The man seemed pleased to have a conversation that extended beyond dealing with the few people already in the establishment.

"Word of mouth, mostly," he said. "You new around here?"

Daryl hummed.

"Passin' through or settlin' down?" The man asked.

"Seems like a lot of that's gonna depend on what the hell you gonna tell me next," Daryl said. The man laughed, again, sincerely. He seemed wholly amused by Daryl.

"Good a place as any to hang your hat, if you ask me," the man said. "I been around—towns here or there. I own the place. Work it, too. Got a couple workin' girls now, but I'ma have more as soon as I can get 'em, you know?"

"Where you get 'em?" Daryl asked.

Carol bristled, slightly, but she realized that Daryl's question was simply one of simple curiosity, and not one of any genuine interest in the acquisition of whores.

"Fallen women," the man said. "They're everywhere from what I can tell. You know—sometimes they get widowed, can't keep up with themselves. Get abandoned for one damn reason or another. Just another mouth to feed that don't bring nothin' to a home. Some is out lookin' for adventure, and some they say just get picked up. Come in 'bout broken, but every now and again a wagon'll roll through with a dozen or so of 'em on it. I always pick them that seems the most obedient. They tell me that the ones with confidence bring a pretty penny, but the most the men I know don't want no challenge. Meek'll do just fine as long as the pussy's halfway clean and entirely available."

Daryl laughed in his throat, but he didn't offer more response to the man's discussion of whores.

"What else you know good around here?" Daryl asked.

"Not much else I know of," the man said. "Heard there's good land for anyone's got a mind to get his hands dirty that way, but there's no shortage of that. Seems to me that most that's rollin' through have a mind to get their hands in the water, if you catch my drift. The kind of gold they're lookin' for comes right out the ground, but it don't grow there. You lookin' to do a little diggin'?"

"Daryl smiled at him and shrugged.

"Right now, we're just lookin' to drink a lil' whiskey," Daryl said.

"Then you come to the right damn place," the man said.

Daryl tipped his head at the man, and Carol followed Daryl to a table that he chose at the farthest corner of the room. With his back against the wall, Daryl sat down. Carol followed his instructions and sat at the seat that he indicated for her.

"You don't never put your back to the door," Daryl said. "Not if you somewhere without me."

"I won't be anywhere without you," Carol said. Daryl poured whiskey into both their glasses. He sipped his, and she followed suit. He lit a cigarette for himself and put the tattered and stained paper on the table in front of him. It looked like it had been used to soak up liquor more than it had been used for reading purposes. "Are you looking for anything in particular in there?" Carol asked, keeping her voice down low and trying to make it as deep as she could.

"Nah," Daryl said. "In places like this, it's better to keep your ears open. Learned a long time ago, though, that people get nervous when you're just lookin' to see what you can see, and listenin' to hear what'cha can hear. They prefer if it looks as though you occupied. Whiskey, smoke, and somethin' to read makes it look like you never minded nobody's business but your own, and they'd mostly prefer it that way. You don't wanna make nobody anxious. Anxious people get skittish, and skittish people is quick with their guns."

Carol nodded her agreement of that assessment. For a while, they sat at the table. They exchanged the occasional word of whispered conversation, but mostly they just sat and listened. Daryl pretended to examine the paper, and Carol pretended to read some of it from the angle her chair allowed her.

There wasn't much to hear, though, and eventually they were interrupted by one of the very same whores that the bartender had been discussing earlier.

Carol let her eyes trail up the woman, but she didn't let them linger long enough for the woman to get a good look at her. She was dressed as a man and, though her hair had begun to grow back from the butchering she'd given it last with a pair of scissors, it was still short enough for her to pass for a man—especially under the hat that she wore to keep the sun from blistering her face. She imagined that she was plain enough to pass as a man—or a boy, if the bartender's reaction had been any indication of how others might see her—but she didn't want to take her chances of being recognized as a woman. These were rough towns, and Ed had already told her stories of what might happen to her should she wander too close to the people of a town.

The whore that approached the table looked fairly young. She was thin, and the dress that hung on her looked like it had belonged to someone else—and it likely had. Carol felt something in her stomach catch. There was very little beyond chance, in life, that had kept her from the same fate as the woman who was standing by their table now.

Still, the young woman put on a smile that, Carol imagined, most men couldn't see through. Carol imagined that many men were like Ed and, being like Ed, they wouldn't want to see through the smile anyway, because the smile was what they wanted. This woman would be nothing more to men like that than a pussy—just like the bartender suggested.

Carol flicked her eyes over to Daryl. Her pussy had been the first that Daryl had gotten to see with any amount of study, and he seemed quite fond of it, but that could very well be because he'd never seen a better one. He didn't know that there was anything wrong with Carol's pussy, like Ed said there was. He didn't know that Carol didn't know any of the so-called natural born skills of pleasing a man, like Ed told her. Daryl didn't know any better, and so he thought that Carol was the best woman there was with a pussy that was of the greatest quality, perhaps, in the whole of the world.

Suddenly, Carol tensed to have this whore standing so close to Daryl. She tensed to think that he might want to know this whore and, in knowing her, he might realize, really, that Carol wasn't half the mate that he believed she could be.

It was worse when the whore moved close to Daryl, practically wedging herself between where Carol sat and where Daryl sat. Daryl moved back a little, giving the whore his attention with a look of confusion.

"You fancy a poke?" She asked.

"Do what now?" Daryl asked. He lit another cigarette for himself.

"A poke," the woman said. "You fancy a poke?" She gestured back toward the bar where the bartender threw up a hand. "He said it's on him. Whatever you want. I'm real good at suckin' pricks, if you'd rather have that."

Daryl frowned at the bartender and then back at the woman.

"I don't got need of no such thing," he offered. "Thank you just the same."

"You sure?" She asked. "It ain't no charge when it's Ned sayin' you get took care of—and I'm one of the best prick suckers to come out West."

"Bet you is," Daryl said. "But—my prick is done well-sucked, so I just ain't got no need for it. You see—I done got me a mate."

Carol's pulse kicked up. Her heart thundered in her chest. In actuality, she'd never sucked Daryl's prick for him, but she figured she might just as soon as they got back to camp. She wasn't any good at it, and she certainly couldn't brag to be the best in the whole of the West at sucking pricks, but she could certainly be the first one at sucking Daryl's and, maybe, she could convince him that she could do it well enough to please him—if nothing else.

"What about you?"

Carol tensed and looked up when she realized that she was being addressed. Afraid that her voice would give her away, she simply hummed in question.

"Said—what about you?" The woman repeated. "Ned said you can have what'cha want, too. You fancy a poke?"

Carol glanced at Daryl. She narrowed her eyes at him because he was laughing. He was doing his damned best to cover it over, but she knew him well enough, by now, to know what he looked like when something struck him right.

Careful not to give herself away, she hummed in the negative.

"He OK?" The woman asked Daryl.

"He ain't got a lot to say," Daryl said. "But he ain't got need of your services neither."

"Prick don't work or somethin'?" She asked.

"Never has," Daryl offered.

The woman gave Carol a pitying look, hovered a moment longer like she wasn't sure what to do with herself if her services weren't going to be needed, and then she walked off.

Carol leaned toward Daryl.

"Prick don't work?" She hissed.

Daryl smirked at her.

"She left you be," he said.

"Still—I didn't expect to get my manhood and lose it in the same day," Carol whispered.

"You want me to see if the offer's still good?" Daryl asked.

"No," Carol said. "But—I don't wanna stay here no more. Not if there's nothing else to hear."

"You got somethin' in mind? You lookin' like you got in an ant bed."

"I've got a couple things in mind," Carol said. "But—they're the kinda things you wanna take me back to the camp for."

Daryl perked slightly, like he was trying to smell out her offer.

"Matin' things?" He asked.

Carol bit back her smile. She might not have a very good pussy, and she might not be good at any of the pleasing things that women were expected to do for men, but Daryl didn't know that. He didn't know that at all.

Carol nodded her head.

"But—I don't want to stay here any longer," she said, stressing her point.

Daryl stood up, gathering up their things.

"Then, we oughta go," he said, matter-of-factly, and there was nothing more to discuss.

111

AN: So, in keeping with what seems to be a theme for me, I have to post something here that will travel across several of my fics. Please ignore if you've already seen it.

So—you wanna hear a story about how I have good intentions but suck at following through with them?

I was informed that people don't review/comment frequently because they don't get responses for their reviews, and that makes them feel unappreciated as readers. I know that there are people who are practically professionals at responding to everything all the time. I certainly don't want people to feel unappreciated.

I meant to answer everyone's reviews forever and ever, but I found out, very, very quickly, that I just can't. My sometimes-scrambled brain can't handle it. I value and love every review I get. The knowledge that you're reading and enjoying keeps me publishing chapters. I even save the best ones in a document titled "Really Nice Reviews" to read and reread when I need a pick-me-up. However, when I try to assign myself the job of answering them, even if there's only a couple, it becomes a job. This is especially true if there's not really a lot there for me to know what to say. Then, I go into a spiral where I was taught that I can't have "fun" until I do "all my work." That means I can't even daydream about future chapters until I figure out a meaningful response to everything.

So—fast forward and I've spent two weeks AVOIDING my Caryl fics because I "can't" allow myself to write them or even think about them. I've now successfully gotten myself stuck on all of them. It's been absolutely horrible.

That being said, I'll be answering reviews, as I used to, if there's something there that I feel like I can answer, etc., but I'm going to have to just say I failed at this endeavor. I do love all of your reviews/comments, and they do help immensely with the motivation to publish new chapters, but I just fail at trying to answer everything and continue to write. If you're someone who needs that response back in order to read and comment/review to let me know that you're reading, then I respect that, and I hope that you find something that you can read where all your needs are fulfilled.

As for me, I have to do what I have to do in order to be able to keep writing, because otherwise I'm just stalling on literally everything. I'm sorry!

I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Please don't forget to let me know what you think! (But, also know that I may or may not get back to you, even though that absolutely doesn't mean that I don't appreciate your words. LOL)